


The Face of Don Juan

by GingerGinger



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: And Hugh Panaro's, I say EC for relationships because it is implied, None of them save for EC and Pharoga make any sense, Other, Pls don't kill me, Super Angst, Taking a bit from Michael Crawford's deformity mainly eyes, deformity based on Czech production, erik is looking at his face, like a lot of it, me as a pagan saying this 'yall need jesus', okay back to seriousness, what the actual fuck is up with some of those ships?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9685028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerGinger/pseuds/GingerGinger
Summary: To which Erik takes a look at his face.





	

_Angel, if you ever do manifest an earthly form, may we ever meet in person?_

Her words reiterated in his head as he trekked down the stone steps to his home. His angel wanted to see him! Oh, what joy it brought him that she would want to meet in person. But, it also horrified him for what his dear, sweet Christine would see behind that mirror.

_…Perhaps, someday, my child…. For now, rest and I shall see you in two days' time._

Once Christine had left, Erik pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the two-way mirror and took an exhausted breath.

_Oh, Christine...your angel is no angel if you were to look beyond the mirror…Your beloved Angel of Music has fallen much further than he has risen to be the one you look up to…_

He pulled away and took his leave once he adjusted his fedora leading him down to where he currently was, thinking. His cape billowed behind him, causing a gentle wind to hit the heels of his dress shoes as he turned down the tunnel of the sewer. His steps even had a musical cadence to them! He snickered at such a thing, but then his mind immediately began to wander back to his original thoughts.

It had never occurred to him that he would think about his face. Had he dared to think of such atrocity he would go into a fit of rage and envy of the souls that dwell above him. But now, he found himself only rubbing the edges of his white porcelain mask up to where it covered his nose.

He reached to his gondola and took the wooden oar he had stuck in the ground when he came ashore to head to the mirror and stepped into the boat, slowly beginning his quiet ride to his home or much rather his lair. Music played in his head as he rode about the murky sewer waters and turning its corners before entering the misty lake and pulling ashore.

He stepped off of the gondola, setting the oar aside as he tugged his black cape off, folding it into his arm as he sauntered over to his organ. He placed his cloak down on one of the arms of his throne before continuing to his organ. Once there, he attempted to compose the score for his opera, Don Juan Triumphant. Though his attempt proved to be fruitless for his beloved Christine's question was all-encompassing to his mind.

_Angel, if you ever do manifest an earthly form, may we ever meet in person? Her sweet, innocent voice filled his mind as he was now once more thinking of her._

His hands rested on the ivory keys. But not once did one of his pale, thin fingers move to press a key producing a sound fill his ears as his desires were to compose.

Or so he had thought.

Erik folded his hand, resting his chin on top of it with his other hand still on the keys. Not once did his finger move to press a key, and it infuriated him! He wanted to music flow out gracefully on those fingers of his but they did not. Quickly he rose to his feet and stepped hastily over to his throne and sat down.

Now, his fingers had tapped in a melodic melody against the surface of the throne's arms. He had glared down at them, curious to why they would tap against his throne, but not his organ. Erik had only sighed at this and did nothing more but revert his sight back to the murky waters of the lake.

An absurd thought came to him, as he sat there and watched the water flow throughout the lake; an absurd enough thought that made him once more stand up and decide to pull out a mirror. Erik had no real reason to have a mirror, he thought to himself. He hated them with every fibre of his being but yet now he stood before one looking at his tall figure in its reflection. But now another question rose to his mind. Why did he hate them? Was it because they would reflect back a monster hidden underneath the porcelain mask of his?

Or was it because he was afraid to see the broken man that he was?

Erik continued to stare at his own reflection. The reflection he was easily afraid of despite it being only him. Though that was the thing, it was only him. More absurdness came to him as he watched himself pull off the mask and hold it in his hand. But, he did not exactly look at his reflection quite yet as he pulled off his mask.

He ran his fingers through his obsidian coloured wig as his head gently pulled up to look at what the mirror reflected.

He did not like what he saw when he opened his eyes.

Half his face was handsome, perfect, he would say himself, but then there was the mask to hide the imperfection that was his right side. The left side of his face was smooth, a perfect ivory tone since he had never once stepped away from the Palais Garnier for longer than needed; his eyebrow a perfect chocolate colour to match his dark brown eye. His cheekbone was pristine to the touch where if he had only shown his left side, he would have all the women of Paris gawking over him as he walked along their streets. But yet, his eye would still only be for his dear Christine.

This side had brought a faint, small smile to his lips. But, it only lasted for a mere moment as he knew what was left to look at. The dreaded right side.

Half of his lip was bloated, but the entirety of his lip was a rosewood almost sangria red colour depending on which way he looked at it. It was all uneven, which he even noticed when he had smiled that mere moment, and it irritated him so much. His lips were not perfect, they were not soft. They were chapped, lumped, infected looking even. His lips were far from perfect.

Then his gaze went up to the nose and the eye socket. Half his nose was caved in and covered in red blisters from the edges of his mask rubbing on his skin, though he could not feel the pain from it. The side still had a nose cavity, but Erik could not smell anything from on that side. He moved onto his eye, his thoughts weren't becoming better, but rather much worse. His eye was sunken into his skull and was blind on that side of his face, as it was a pale blue yet it looked like a milky white. The skin was sagging downward on his features, almost like it were to fall off at any moment, and the discoloured skin arranging from different shades of light to almost dark purple.

Erik rather had difficulty from feeling pain from that side. His own twisted face had caused him to have nerve damage, but in a way, he looked at it as a positive since he wouldn't have to think much on it. His gaze continued to travel as it moved toward his cheek, the almost perfect part of that side of his face.

It was the same ivory tone as his perfect side, but it was covered in the same red blisters as his nose was and also from the mask. The more he looked at it the more it looked like a lump that was hiding something much worse underneath as it continued to shrivel up from the lower part of his cheek. He had not even looked at it; it seemed like he was almost afraid to.

He was actually very afraid.

His eyes moved downward and saw the exposure of muscle and nerves in his cheek. His skin looked like it was peeling itself off, exposing more damaged nerve and muscle but yet it did not. Erik did not wish to look at it any longer and so his eyes travelled back up. He had stopped at his cheekbone. Very much like his perfect side, it was prominent, but the bone was stretching the skin and muscle as if it was torn out and so Erik looked no longer. But his eyes found another feature for his mind to torture him with, his ear. He had no ear in fact. It had looked like it had been twisted and melted to the point it looked like there was nothing but a hole there. Erik had forced himself to move on.

His eyes stopped at his hair, his perfect black hair, the ideal hair, he thought would make him look handsome. He took a deep breath and slid the wig off, revealing the wisps of grey hairs he had for real hair. Though, his focus was not on that, but on the cracked skin, revealing his skull and brain. All around it, the area had looked like someone had carved out a piece of his skin and dragged their knife throughout it, leaving it like the skin had cracked and never properly healed with the lumps and rough edges. With his skull and brain, it looked like the skull bone was not properly grown and the pallid tint of his brain.

He couldn't look at it any longer as he burst into tears, smashing the mirror. His hands covered his face as he cried. His cries echoing throughout the lair. Half of his face was perfect! He was even handsome, but yet the other side of his face was a monstrosity. No one would ever love him with a face like that. No one.

Not even his own mother loved him with that face.

_Oh, Christine…You would never want to see this face._

_…Not even I want to…_

His head shot up when his tears had stopped and his face had stiffened, returning back to its original stoic expression. His gaze shifted over to his organ where his piece rested in its leather binding.

_Don Juan Triumphant._

That was it! He had not developed a story for his piece, his magnum opus; but, now he could see the story unfold right before his eyes as he rose to his feet. The story of the man that could have been him, with the woman he had deeply desired.

The man he wished he was.

Erik scurried over to his organ and immediately began to play. His fingers began dancing along the alabaster white keys as they produce sweet, gentle sound to his ears. 

No! His opera was not suited for an audience, a normal one that is. His Don Juan was not any kind of music, it was his music. And his Don Juan burned. Though, Erik wanted to share his music with the world.

Erik did not stop composing, though he stopped briefly and chuckled to himself before pulling his quill back to the parchment, labelling more notes. His opera would perform with the perfect stage and orchestra, the voluptuous dancing, and of course, the most exquisite cast. 

And Erik composed, not once stopping for rest or sustenance. His mind wandered once as he composed.

_Christine shall be my Aminta, as I shall be her Don Juan._

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few of my tags sound a bit like an ass but I'm just being downright honest. Though to each is their own.


End file.
